Don't Think Twice
by AndThatWasEnough
Summary: The first thing I noticed about Tulsa was the people. Then I noticed the missing 'W' in 'Will Rogers High School.' And then there was Two-Bit Mathews.
1. What You Don't Know

**Author's Note: Ah! Director99 here... But I can't go by that anymore. Call me AndThatWasEnough. **

**It's been so long since I published here- four months! Eek! Well, after a lot of school and extracurriculars and etc., I have something to show you for all the time I was gone: A rewrite of my first story. If you're wondering why I'm rewriting it, I have a simple answer for you. It needed to be done. So much didn't get into the first version, and I was rushing myself. But now, I have a clear view of what needs to be done, and I'm going to show you what I've managed to do with it. It's like I've had an epiphany. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton does. The title comes from Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right."**

**So enjoy, and as always, happy reading. :)**

XXXXX

_"I'm a-thinking and a-wonderin' walking down the road_

_I once loved a woman, a child I am told_

_I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul_

_But don't think twice, it's all right."_

_-Bob Dylan; Don't Think Twice, It's All Right_

XXXXX

I think a good place to start our story would be at the beginning. Not the very, very beginning. I consider that to possibly be at about the time of my conception, and that's not something I want to get too detailed about. No, our story starts when I'm sixteen years old, about to be a junior in high school. I don't think that's a bad place to start. See, that's when the most important things that ever happened in the history of my entire short life took place. Jesus, was it a busy year. The event that got the ball rolling on all the rest of the events that year happened in mid-August. My father and I moved from New York City to Tulsa, Oklahoma. Seems like a bit of a downgrade, yes? Well, lets put it like this: my father wanted tenure, and he simply couldn't get it where he taught in New York, so Oklahoma State was the next best option. Period.

Like I said, it was mid-August. The two of us drove all the way down there, belongings in tow. It was a long drive, I remember that, and I remember that my father insisted on talking at least two-thirds of the way there. My father is a talkative man, naturally. He lectures for a living- to his students and to me. It's commendable. He has a lot to say about history to his students and colleagues, and a lot to say about discipline to me. But, my dad is a good guy. My mom left not long after I was born, so it was left to my dad to raise me. You'd think I might feel bad about my mother being gone, but I don't even remember her. The fact that she's gone is just a part of my history, and that's fine by me. Sure, not having her was awkward at times, like when I, uh, "became a woman" or however adults say it. That was a long day. But more often than not, I like it just being the two of us. It is what it is.

Anyway. We get to our new neighborhood, and I can't help but be impressed. I'd lived in an apartment my entire life, but now we had a big old house. Really big. Terribly big. It was painted white and had blue shutters and a big wraparound porch downstairs, and a porch on the back and one side of the upstairs. I didn't quite know what we do with all that space, but my dad has since found ways to fill it.

So I have a big house, my dad has a nice new job, and I made the journey to Tulsa in one piece. We should be good, right? No. Until the school year started that year, I sat in my room and felt sorry for myself. Very, very sorry. It was pathetic. I sat in my big room, unpacking and thinking and sulking.

I didn't go out.

I didn't make friends. I didn't even make an attempt to.

I sulked.

And felt sorry for myself.

Because that was the thing to do.

About two weeks into living in Tulsa, my father decided he should talk to me.

"Bridget," he said.

"Mmhmm," I hummed, flipping through the pages of Vogue magazine.

"You've hardly left this room," he said. I nodded. I didn't look up from my article.

"I know I haven't."

"Why is that?"

"I don't want to, that's why."

An answer worthy of an A+ if you ask me. But my dad didn't seem to think so.

"Bridget. I'm serious. You start school in two weeks, and you won't know anyone. Does that bother you at all? Don't you think you'd be more comfortable knowing someone on your first day instead of having to figure everything out for yourself?"

I put down my magazine. He had a fair point. I'd gone through ten years, eleven if you count kindergarten, of public school without ever having to make any major adjustments. But this, this whole moving thing, was my major adjustment. And he was right, I wouldn't know anybody. And I'm not always so good at making friends. So I smiled at him and held out my hand.

"Could I borrow your car?" I asked. My dad rolled his eyes.

"There are plenty of young girls your age in this neighborhood, Bridget. Why don't you go out and visit with one of them instead of driving out to east Jesus nowhere to find someone to talk to?" He sighed.

"Because that's too easy," I answered, standing up and smoothing my skirt. "Besides, maybe I'll pass them as I drive. Please, dad? Please?"

He gave me one of those looks, but in short, that's how I ended up with my dad's keys, taking a drive around my new town. It was very different from what I was used to, and I'm not a fan of what I don't know. Not usually, that is. That kinda changed over the course of that year. Anyway, I'm driving and driving and driving, looking around and soaking everything in. There were plenty of places to see. There were bars and dance halls and somewhat tall buildings, and a few schools. Plenty of houses. A police station. Etc., etc., etc. The people were what was interesting. They were well-dressed and looked well-to-do. Not a hair out of place. Not too much variety. I wasn't used to that either. I saw all sorts of people in New York. It was a diverse place. Very diverse. Here... Not so much. It was about a half an hour later that the needle started to hover around 'E', and I pulled into a gas station. I hadn't spoken to anyone yet.

But I was about to.

See dad? I can socialize wherever I want.

It was a little place called the DX. I pulled next to one of the pumps, and within a few seconds a guy about my age came out to one of the pumps and started to fill the car. He gave me a friendly 'hello', but then went back to focusing on what he was doing. I watched him closely. He was handsome, that much was for sure. Nice brown eyes, blond hair that was kinda long. He seemed nice enough, so I decided it'd be okay to ask him a few questions.

"Hey, uh..." I trailed off. I didn't know his name. His head snapped up and he smiled.

"Sodapop, miss," he grinned.

Sodapop, huh? What a name. Jesus Christ. Don't here that one everyday.

"Alright Sodapop. Would you mind telling me what exactly there is to do around here?" I asked.

"You ain't from around here or somethin'? The going-ons of this town are pretty common knowledge. Unless, of course, you ain't from around here."

He raised an eyebrow, but he kept smiling, still handsome. I smirked.

"No, I'm not from around here," I answered. "Still, anything interesting to do?"

He gave me an amused look, like he wanted to laugh at me, and he pulled the nozzle out of my car. Then he held his hand out. I put four dollars in his hand.

"Ya know," he started, "I really don't think I'm the guy you should be asking. I don't really think we have the same interests." He slammed the top of the car twice. I started up the engine, ready to pull out.

"But, maybe I'll see you around," he shrugged. He flipped me a wave and I drove off, completely miffed.

What did he mean we didn't have the same interests? He probably didn't have time to elaborate, but a bit of an explanation would've been appreciated. What a weird town. People name their kids Sodapop and give vague responses. Fantastic.

I was probably being bitter. Actually, of course I was being bitter. I didn't want to be in Tulsa, I wanted to be in New York. But, I guess it just wasn't meant to be. Not for now, at least.

I drove home after that, too confused to go on. I pulled the car into the driveway and headed back inside where my father was sitting in his new study, which at the time was still mostly boxes and built-in shelves. But he had his desk and chair set up, and he was sitting there reading the paper. He looked up at me when I entered.

"Hey, dad," I greeted.

"Hey, honey. How was the drive?"

"Fine. I filled up the car on my way home."

My dad nodded slowly, turning the page of his paper. He took another glance at me.

"You're back sooner than I expected," he said. "Not much to see?"

I shrugged, sitting down next to his desk.

"Oh, there's plenty to see. Just not a lot of people out," I sighed, resting my head on my knees. "I met someone though."

"Oh? Who?"

"His name is Sodapop. He works at the gas station I went to. He wouldn't tell me what there was to do around here, but he was nice about it. I guess."

My dad set his paper down, and his eyes looked amused.

"Sodapop, huh?" He asked, smiling. I smiled back, laughing a bit.

"Yeah, that was his name. Could be a nickname though. I may never see him again, so who's to tell?"

"True. But you never know."

That's true. You never really know. So this is where I really think the story starts. The rest of this is all set-up, boring background stuff. There's a lot to tell, and a lot has happened since I met Sodapop Curtis. I mean, it wasn't much of a meeting. Just a few words and a suggested possibility of seeing him again sometime. And I did see him again, plenty of times. Actually, he's one of the main reasons that I was confident enough to do everything I did that following spring. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. A lot happened between my first day of school at Will Rogers' High School and that spring, and it's gonna take me awhile to tell it all. I feel obligated to. It's a story about art classes and world history classes and mixed messages and a lot of conversations between me and a guy named Two-Bit Mathews.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

How can I talk about Two-Bit Mathews without talking first about how I met him? That's a good story, and if he had never decided to open his big mouth that morning, I wouldn't be where I am right now.

And where am I?

Well, I'm kinda in between a rock and a hard place at the moment.

And it's all Two-Bit Mathews' fault.

XXXXX

**A/N: Whew! The rewritten chapter one! Hope you enjoyed it. I would seriously love some reviews: suggestions, encouragement, anything, as long as you're polite and and mean well. Because that would really make my day! I have this pretty well planned out, but encouragement would just be great. **


	2. The Better Answer

**Author's Note: Here's the next chapter! I'd like to thank erf10722 and AtomicTelophone for reviewing, and I'd also like to thank anyone who favorited or followed this story. It really motivated me to get this next chapter out. Keep it up!**

**Happy reading. :)**

XXXXX

The first day of school is actually one of my favorite days of the year. I don't really like school all that much, but I like the buzz that surrounds the campus that first day. It's a fresh start. You get to see your friends, compare schedules, and establish a routine for yourself. I like having a routine. It makes me feel more certain about what I'm doing; I'm not an impulsive person. So I was looking forward to it.

Well.

Sorta.

As my father pointed out, I wouldn't know anybody, so I had no one to visit with. No one to compare schedules with, no one to sit with at lunch. I'd only met one person, but he had already established, without saying much at all, that he wasn't too interested in getting to know me. So he's out of the picture. So I decided to preoccupy myself with something. I obsessed over what I would wear. How I did my hair. If I should wear makeup or not. I wanted to look good because _goddammit, I needed to make some friends_. As I analyzed myself in the mirror, I decided that I had done the best I could to look presentable. If we're being completely honest, the only thing that ever annoys me about how I look is my hair; it gets frizzy sometimes because it's real curly. Annoyingly curly. Terribly curly.

My father and I were silent on the drive to school. There was plenty to talk about, but I wasn't exactly wanting to engage myself in any sort of conversation. I was pretty absorbed in my schedule anyway.

_Will Rogers' High School_

_Student: Bridget Marie Stevens_

_Level: Junior_

_Period 1: Art Intro to 2D_

_Period 2: US History_

_Period 3: Pre-Calculus_

_Period 4: Chemistry_

_Period 5: English Literature _

_Period 6: Drama_

_Period 7: Study Hall_

I suppose my schedule may change next semester, but that's in the future. My dad was especially excited about the US History, but that's a course every junior in high school in the entire United States has to take. He just gets excited about anything history-oriented; it's his thing, how he makes his living. I was pretty excited about taking drama, one of my electives. When we were still in New York, my dad used to take me to see Broadway plays a lot, and I loved them. I've seen musicals and plays... And it's just a spectacular experience. There were also those classes like pre-calc and chemistry that I wasn't too excited about, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

When my dad pulled up to the front of the school, the first thing I noticed was that the sign out front was missing it's 'W'. Looks like I'd be going to Ill Rogers High School from now on. I felt my stomach sink. There were so many people, all in their groups, talking and laughing and making it look as though making any friends would be damn near impossible.

"We're here, Bridget," my dad announced.

"Yep."

My father looked out the window, following my gaze. He must be able to read my mind, because he gave me one of those fatherly, sympathetic looks.

"Listen to me, Bridget. You're just as smart, just as likable, and just as worthy as anyone else going to this school. You're going to make friends, and you're going to be just fine. I promise."

I gave him an uncertain look. That was something all dads said. They all believed that their kid was just as smart, just as likable, and just as worthy as everybody else. Maybe even more so. I had learned through years of being surrounded by other people, seeing what they had achieved, that it might not be true. That was something I feared: being completely average and unspecial, regardless of what my dad said. Alas, I knew I had better get moving so I wouldn't be late. I threw an arm around his neck and smiled.

"Thanks dad. I'll see you later, okay?" I said. And with that I got out of the car and walked towards the building, clutching my notebooks close to my chest.

I was in for a long day.

XXXXX

The first thing I did that morning was get lost.

Really.

I had no idea where Intro to 2D was, so I wandered through the halls, not having any idea of where I was going. What a sight I must've been. At the sound of the warning bell I started to panic, and I decided I should probably just ask where I needed to go. I tapped the nearest person to me on the shoulder. A big guy in a letterman jacket.

"Uh, would you mind telling me where this is?" I asked, pointing to my first period class on my schedule. He looked closely at me first, like he was examining me, then gave a short nod. Almost like he was saying to himself '_yes, yes she is worthy of an answer_' and decided to answer my question.

"That's downstairs in room 13. Better get moving," he said. I quickly thanked him and made my way through the mass of people and downstairs to room 13.

Room 13 was definitely an art room, and I was definitely the last person there. The bell hadn't rung yet, but my seat was the only one that still needed filling. The teacher, Ms. Marvin, was nice about it though, pointing out to me where my seat was even though it was pretty obvious. I was still somewhat embarrassed, but at least people stopped looking at me once I sat down. Almost. The boy sitting next to me kept glancing at me while we were going over the class management plan. I don't know why, but he looked like I was the one putting him in an awkward position. How I do not know, but you'd swear I was doing something to him with the looks he was giving me. I guess that was another person who had already written me off.

Our first assignment that day was to make name tags for Ms. Marvin to use the first couple weeks of school. So she passed around thick drawing paper and drawing pencils while she gave us instructions.

"You don't have to do both your first and last name. Your first name will work just fine. I also want to see if you can integrate any of the elements of art into your drawing. If you don't know what those are, the definitions are posted around the room. As a final note, I encourage you to speak with the person you're sitting with. After all, you'll be sitting next to each other for the rest of the year, so you might as well get used to it."

There were a few groans, but Ms. Marvin didn't seem to mind. In fact, she actually looked pleased with herself. It was then that I noticed that none of the tables had a boy sitting next to a boy or a girl sitting next to a girl. We were all mixed up. Maybe that's why the kid next to me looked so uncomfortable.

I looked down at my paper and picked up my pencil. I started out by just writing my name in big, bold letters. Then I traced around them to make them more boxy, erasing the lines inside. With the help of the definitions posted around the room, I added some pattern and shading to it. I was pretty proud of it actually. I looked over at my neighbor, hoping that maybe he'd want to talk. But about what? I could just introduce myself. But then something else caught my eye:

His name tag.

It said Ponyboy.

I almost laughed, but then I remembered Sodapop. He had a funky name, so I guess it wasn't impossible for this guy's parents to give him a unique name too.

"So you're, uh, name is Ponyboy?" I asked. He looked up from his drawing.

"Yeah. That's my real name, too," he said, sounding somewhat defensive. I decided I should probably overlook that if I didn't want to come off as rude or something.

He leaned over and looked at my drawing. "And I guess you're Bridget then."

"That'd be me," I grinned. "So, uh, what do you have after this?"

He furrowed his brow slightly and reached over to his notebook and pulled out his schedule. He laid it out between the two of us.

"Looks like I have algebra next. You taking that too?" He asked. I shook my head.

"No. I took that my freshman year. I have pre-calc. But next I have US History."

Ponyboy made a little 'O' shape with his mouth, like everything suddenly made sense.

"So I guess I can assume that you're not a freshman, huh?" He asked. I nodded slowly.

"Well. Okay then." He pursed his lips before speaking again. "So, uh, I've never seen you before."

Uh-oh. Don't know why, but this was the part of the whole meeting people thing that I wasn't looking forward to. The talking about where I came from, why I came here, etc. Maybe it was because I'd have to do it several times, or maybe it was because I didn't really want to acknowledge the fact that I was actually in Tulsa and not in New York City. It was just a constant reminder that I was in a place that didn't really feel like home to me.

"I, uh, moved from New York City this summer," I mumbled. "That's why you haven't seen me before."

And that was it. That was the first time. And that's when it sunk in for me too. I wasn't going back to New York. I simply wasn't, it wasn't in the cards for me. I tried to convince myself that it would be okay, but the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. So I shut my mouth, the only other time I spoke being to ask Ms. Marvin where my next class was.

XXXXX

Remember how I said that before I starting talking about Two-Bit Mathews, I had to first tell how I met him?

Well, this is how it happened.

Here's the thing about history: I grew up surrounded by it. My bedtime stories were Greek myths. My best grade was always in history, considering how much my father spoke about it. My friends were the daughters of other history professors. It was just a part of my life, the same way my mother being gone was also a part of it. There were things about it that interested me, and things that didn't. I liked learning about our country; how we began and why, how we developed, who was important, and where all of it may lead us. I was looking forward to an interesting, maybe even easy class.

But that was before Two-Bit Mathews came into the room.

I had been seated next to a girl named Missy Redar, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that couldn't seem to stop smiling. Nope, not for the life of her could she stop smiling. That was okay though, because this is the girl that would later become my best friend.

"Hi! I'm Missy Redar," she greeted.

"Bridget Stevens," I said.

And then, it happened.

He sat down behind me. I could hear him snapping his gum in his mouth. As we went over the management plan, he flicked paper footballs. And he needed to shave his sideburns. The only reason I even knew those sideburns were there was because I was constantly turning around to glare at him, telepathically telling him to stop whatever it was he might be doing. But every goddamn time I turned my head around, he grinned at me. A big, shit-eating grin that I couldn't stand. And then I would turn back around, try to read back over whatever Mr. James had passed out to us, and he would go back at it. And then I would turn around. And he would smile. It was a viscous cycle.

"Would you stop?" I hissed at him, hoping Mr. James wouldn't hear us. I figured I was pretty safe, sitting in the middle of the classroom, but you should never underestimate a teacher's abilities. Especially when it comes to their ears. I know this from personal experience.

"Stop what?" He asked, acting all innocent. I rolled my eyes.

"Being a nuisance," I said. He just smiled.

"I'm afraid that's a bit too vague for my liking. When you have a better answer, I'd be more than happy to listen."

I stared at him, jaw slack. Who gave him the right to be a pain in the ass? Little did I know how important this conversation would be and how much it would affect my future, but I'm no psychic. I couldn't tell you what was going to happen all because Two-Bit Mathews expected a better answer.

"Well," I began. "How about you stop smiling at me every time I turn around?"

He shook his head.

"Just stop turning around," he smiled.

I rolled my eyes, and then I did in fact turn around. I felt Missy poke my shoulder.

"What?" I whispered. She cocked her head like a confused puppy.

"I wouldn't bug him too much," she said. "It ain't worth it."

I stared at her. I wanted him to stop blowing bubbles and ripping paper and grinning at me. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

"Okay," I said instead. "It isn't worth it."

Missy laughed. It was light and sweet, like you might expect Glenda the good witch from 'The Wizard of Oz' to laugh.

"That's funny. I say ain't, you say isn't. Guess you're from pretty far away, huh?" She asked.

"How could you tell?" I deadpanned.

"It's in how you talk. Where're you from?"

"New York City."

Well, that just absolutely sent her over the edge. Her smile got even bigger, if that was even possible, and it looked as though her face just might split in half.

"That's boss!" She nearly squealed. "Hey, why don't you come sit with me and my friends at lunch, so you could tell is what it's like there? I mean, I've always wanted to go there."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. That was fast. That's when it occurred to me that having lived in New York could play to my advantage. All these people knew was this dead end town; I had come from somewhere, someplace everyone knew about. Even though I was stuck here now too, I was from New York.

"Alright," I said. "I'll see you at lunch then."

XXXXX

At lunch, Missy introduced me to her friends. There were four of them: Cherry Valance, Marcia Powell, Vickie Harper, and Penny Simpson. All juniors, like me and Missy. It was a diverse group, too. I appreciated that. When I had gone exploring that evening a couple weeks ago, I was afraid I'd be coming up against a bunch of cookie-cutter Mary Janes and prepped-out boys. Not the case.

"So y'all, guess where Bridget's from," Missy prompted the group in that sweet southern accent of hers.

"Where?" Marcia asked.

Here's what I'd learned about Marcia: She talked more than Missy, but she didn't really have much to say.

Missy leaned closer, like she had a terrible, dark secret to tell, but actually keeping it a secret wasn't an option anymore.

"She's from New York City," she drawled.

Marcia and Penny looked impressed. Vickie looked indifferent. Cherry... Well, Cherry looked like she was thinking real hard. Here's what I'd learned about Cherry: She talked less than Missy, but had a lot to say.

"We started talkin' in history," Missy continued. "That boy Two-Bit Mathews was buggin' her, and I jumped in and told her he wasn't worth the time."

They all seemed to agree with that. Vickie shook her head.

"He's that boy that hangs around with Sodapop Curtis. If only he was as nice as him," she grumbled.

I recognized that name. I remembered what he looked like, and that I hadn't seen him at school the entire day. And then I remembered he worked at that gas station. And that might have something to do with why.

I tried to join in on conversation, and I think Missy's friends were pretty accepting of me, which felt good. I liked them all for the most part. Well, Vickie was a bit of a downer, but three out of four isn't bad.

The best part?

They invited me to come back tomorrow.

XXXXX

"Bridget?"

I looked up from my food. My father was staring at me, amused, from across the table.

"Yeah dad?"

"I said that the painters are coming on Saturday, and I need to know what color you'd like for them to paint your room."

Pink. No question. I hate to admit it, but it was my favorite color. As long as I could remember, I loved pink. Any shade, on anything, in any design or pattern. So I told him I wanted my bedroom pink, and he didn't look a bit surprised.

"How was your first day?" He asked. I shrugged.

"Fine," I answered. "Pretty typical." My father nodded his head.

"Did you make any friends?"

Ugh. What an awkward question. It's like asking if you knew how to breathe. It was a simple question with a simple answer, but that answer wasn't always a simple yes or no. In the case of whether or not you know how to breathe, 'yes' didn't carry much weight. Unless you say 'no', and even then you're just being a tool. In the case of human relations, 'yes' and 'no' represent a lot.

"Uh... I guess so," I said. "I mean, I met some nice girls. Sat with them at lunch, they invited me back tomorrow."

That seemed to satisfy him, and he stopped talking. That's how we are, I guess. The two of us don't always talk a whole lot. Our dinners are usually quiet like this, and I'm used to it by now. Quiet.

And then, I had it.

I had my better answer for Two-Bit Mathews.

XXXXX

**A/N: Pardon typos. If you could leave a review, I would love it. Seriously, it would just make my day. :)**


	3. Lousy

**Author's Note: Ah! Sorry I took so damn long to update! It was a bit hectic at my house, nothing bad, just a lot going on. But I'm back, and I hope to get back to a regular once-a-week schedule.**

**Also, special thanks to my oh mighty, erf10722, and Wolf Eared Girl for reviewing. I'd also like to thank those of you who have favorited and followed. I really love hearing from you guys, so if you could review or PM me with your thoughts, it would be great. **

**Happy reading. :)**

XXXXX

I fell into a routine after a couple of weeks. It was funny how quickly I settled in, or at least I thought so. I thought it'd be impossible to adjust, but I guess not. It helped that Missy was there, and all her friends. If I may be so bold, I guess they had sorta become my friends too by that point. To be completely honest, I enjoyed Missy and Cherry's company the most. Missy was a ray of sunshine, the proverbial perky girl who always seemed to be smiling. But she wasn't just perk and fluff. She was a smart person, I could tell. Not just book smart either. She could understand people, like she was peeling back all their layers and discovering things that no one else could. And Cherry... Well, like I said before, Cherry didn't talk a lot for someone who had a lot to say. She wasn't exactly mute, but whenever she did speak, people listened. Cherry spoke with such gravity a lot of the time. She was the serious one, the Yin to Marcia, her Yang. But she was also light and funny sometimes. It was like she had a bipolar personality, but instead of a Jekyll and Hyde sort of thing, it was more subdued. Like... I dunno who like. But she was a puzzle I couldn't solve, but couldn't help but keep coming back to. Like if I could learn to just dig a bit deeper into her, I could crack her code. That is, if there even was anything to crack. Maybe she was just quiet, plain and simple. There isn't always a need to over-analyze.

Vickie and Penny are sort of their own beasts. Penny is soft-spoken, Vickie is constantly voicing her opinions. Always. On everything. Wanna talk about music? Vickie will tell you exactly who she thinks is in, and who she thinks is definitely out. Boys? Easy. Vickie has a list of the cutest boys in school, one through twenty. Vickie prefers the movie version of a story if it was a book first because she can actually see it and hear it (and, well, lets face it. Vickie doesn't want to do the work when it comes to reading a book. It takes imagination, which frankly, _she doesn't have_). And you better believe me when I say that Vickie could talk about Tulsa's less fortunate half until she was blue in the face.

"You better be careful of them, Bridget," she warned me. "I'm serious. Just trust me on this."

"Okay," I mumbled. "I'll be careful."

"I really am serious," she continued. We sat down in our seats next to each other in calculus.

"I believe you," I stressed. "I do, Vickie. But... Why, huh? Why should I be careful?"

I watched Vickie as she pulled out her homework, flattening it out on her desk. It reminded me that I should probably do the same, so I pulled mine out as well, looking at it. Blech. Who has time for math anyway?

"Listen to me Bridget," Vickie sighed. "Socs and greasers are s'posed to stay separate. It's better that way. They're just bad news. They're dangerous. You wanna get hurt?" I shook my head.

"Then avoid them. If you can't do that, well, you have the upper hand."

I'd never had the upper hand in my life. What does it mean to have the upper hand when you're a teenager anyway? Probably something to do with popularity. That didn't help me though, because I hadn't exactly been popular before. I know it sounds trite, but it's true. And it wasn't that I was just going through school unnoticed, it was that I was being noticed for all the wrong things. Braces and glasses and being accused of being a brown noser and a teacher's pet, all because my dad was a professor and that somehow made me an instant suck-up. Like that's true at all. I avoid figures of authority like the plague, if I can help it. I don't need to be getting myself into any trouble.

But now... I had the upper hand. My social status had changed drastically since arriving in Tulsa, how I do not know, but it had. It was puzzling and odd and made me feel slightly off, but I realized I could use it all to my advantage.

XXXXX

I told him on September eighteenth.

"I have a better answer for you," I said abruptly. Two-Bit smirked.

"A better answer for what?" He asked.

"I have a better reason for wanting you to leave me alone."

Two-Bit leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Let's hear it then," he grinned.

God, that stupid grin. I could smack it right off his face. It wasn't leering or wolfish. That I could put up with. His smile though- it was comical. Like it was waiting to tease me, and in the worst possible way.

"I realized"-I swallowed-"that since I'm so used to being, well, alone, that having a distraction like you around is, well, foreign."

He raised an eyebrow and started laughing. Two-Bit turned to the guy he sat next to, Jimmy Hopper, and said,

"Can you believe this chick? Can you _believe_ her?" He looked back at me. "I suggest you get off your high horse, honey."

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the worst creature to walk on the face of the earth. Two-Bit Mathews, everybody.

"Lemme give you a suggestion," he continued, leaning forward in his chair. "Just back off, and we'll be fine. Don't make me do anythin stupid, peach." I narrowed my eyebrows at him.

"Don't call me that," I whispered. He smirked.

"Call you what?"

"Peach. Or honey."

"Then what should I call ya, huh?" He asked. "Lemme see... Bridget, right? B-R-I-D-G-E-T... B, b, b... Ah!" Two-Bit touched the tip of his nose. "That's it! Bee. That's it. You're like an angry lil' honey bee, buzzin around an annoyin me."

I opened my mouth, then quickly closed it. Angry and annoying, huh?

The idiot made buzzing noises the rest of the period.

XXXXX

I think the first time I really noticed, I mean really noticed, the soc/greaser thing was in English.

It began with Evie Martin and Holden Caulfield.

Let me explain.

My father has told me that most schools don't like their kids reading _The Catcher in the Rye_. And I have to admit it is a pretty vulgar book, it really is. But that didn't seem to stop Ms. Tracy from having us read it. Whenever I heard that woman's name, I thought of Spencer Tracy. Not the most attractive man there is, but I absolutely adored _Father of the Bride_. I'm a sucker for stories like that. I like the stories with the happy ending because they're so rare, but they're real. Happily ever after can happen, even if it only lasts for a little while. It's out there, and I'm determined to find mine.

Anyway. Ms. Tracy and Holden. Right. Ms. Tracy assigned it to us as our first book of the year, and she placed us in groups where we were supposed to discuss the events of the book. That can be an easy thing to do, if-

A) you either really like or really hate the book, or

B) you like the people in your group.

Unfortunately for me, part A was the only factor in my favor. I liked Holden and his story. Even after only a few pages. Vulgar? Oh, yes. That's what pretty much what everyone in my group thought, and they weren't too happy about it. Well, except Evie Martin.

In my group, there was Lucy Radner, Dave Farbacher, Rodney Davis, and Evie. And little old me, of course. It took me all of two seconds to realize that Evie was the odd one out, the one that didn't belong. The black sheep, the elephant in the room, etc. She dressed different from me and Lucy. While I was wearing a fairly conservative skirt and blouse, Evie looked edgier. Her shirts were tight, her skirts much shorter, her makeup more obvious. What was funny, though, was that I wasn't as opposed to it as I expected to be. Not that I thought it was the most appropriate for school, but I couldn't find it in myself to completely write her off as trash. I guess I'm just that sort of person. But there was that niggling feeling in the back of my mind, and I thought of Two-Bit Mathews and what my friends had said to me.

"Avoid them. If you can't do that, well, you have the upper hand."

And I truly started to believe them. I was better. I had the upper hand. I really, truly did. Evie Martin had nothing on me or Lucy or David or Rodney. The feeling was so overwhelming. And since I couldn't avoid her, I did have the upper hand. And I used that card to my advantage.

"In my opinion, Holden is too vulgar for my liking. And a pest, too. I couldn't put up with someone like him, honestly," Lucy said. Dave and Rodney nodded their agreement.

I didn't know what to say. I was stuck. This was pivotal. I could say what I really thought, or I could just go along with what everybody else was saying. This would define me, it would be indescribably important to my reputation. People needed to think well of me. But how could I achieve that? By speaking my mind? Or by just biting my tongue? I didn't think Holden was a pest. Not at all. I barely knew the character, but I loved him. If Holden Caulfield were a real guy, I'd be the one pestering him. I guess I took too long to answer, because Evie was the one bold enough to throw her opinion out there first.

"I like 'im," she proclaimed. "I like Holden just fine. He speaks his mind. Ain't that a good thing? And I don't mind him swearing either. Just who he is, I guess."

It's like she dropped an atom bomb right in the middle of our little group, our little collection of chairs circled together in the corner. We were quiet as church mice, not being able to accept that maybe, just maybe, she had an opinion, and that it was different than ours. Usually, I would've loved it. My father raised me to be accepting. But that tug in the back of my mind, that mental image of me falling down the social caste, made me say what I said next.

"That isn't a surprise, Evie," I smirked. "I mean, listen to you. You're the female Holden Caulfield, straight out of the book."

Her face crumpled momentarily, then hardened again. Lucy giggled, and Dave and Rodney exchanged telling smiles. By our collective definition, Evie was a vulgar pest. Plain and simple. She had been cast into a role that we believed was rightfully hers, and she was in no position to turn it down. We had the upper hand. She was lower on the totem pole, you could tell just by looking at her. Could tell just by listening to how she spoke. She knew it too.

But saying those words, letting them come tumbling out of my mouth, was a mistake. If I had my connections, then Evie certainly had her own, and she wasn't about to let me get away with talking shit about her.

XXXXX

My room was pink. My room was pink, and I loved it. I could sit in there, my own little sanctuary, surrounded by pink. I could listen to Simon and Garfunkel or the Beatles on the turntable and think happy pink and blue thoughts, and pretend that Vickie wasn't so preoccupied with socs and greasers and Two-Bit Mathews didn't think I was annoying and Evie Martin was just an afterthought. In reality, none of that was true, but I could pretend it was. I could pretend that I was still on New York if I wanted, but that was taking it a step too far. Tulsa was my reality now, and as much as I wanted to go back home, I couldn't.

XXXXX

**A/N: Pardon typos. I'd love it if you dropped a review. :)**


End file.
